HUNTER (15 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The police didn’t say much. They asked me to write down my contact information, asked if I needed any medical assistance, and then they sent me on my way—they even dropped me off at my front door.

Throughout the whole ride in that cruiser, I was worried about Liam’s reaction. When I finally arrived, and I could see his truck parked in the driveway, my worries turned to paralyzing anxiety. Liam was waiting inside for me with a week’s worth of pent up rage. I had no idea what he knew, whether word had gotten out that I’d been with Hunter and that I was never in Kansas City. As far as I knew, there could have been pictures of Hunter ramming his big cock into me on the front page of every paper.

“You okay, lady?” the police officer asked when I didn’t step out from his car as he held the door open.

“Huh? Yeah. I’m fine.” The moment my feet were planted on the sidewalk, the officer was halfway down the street. I was alone, with nowhere to go but inside to face Liam.

So that’s where I went.

Liam was sitting at the kitchen table when I walked in the door. His head turned to me and his eyes became wide. He was slow to stand up. His eyes were glazed over, as if I’d just woken him from some wandering daydream. I wasn’t sure whether to approach him or to back away. He was expressionless, unreadable. For all I knew, his blank face could have been hiding rage, or it could have been hiding sorrow.

“Kyla,” he said softly. He took a step towards me, letting the sunlight from the kitchen window hit his face. He looked dishevelled, unshaven, as if he hadn’t slept since I’d left. He walked towards me like a zombie, his mind still half lost in whatever daydream he’d slipped into. “You’re back,” he said.

“Liam, you don’t look well. Are you okay?” I asked. My eyes wandered down to his hands, to make sure he wasn’t clenching them into fists—to make sure he wasn’t wielding a gun or a knife. He wasn’t.

“I’ve been worried sick about you. I tried to call your phone, but I couldn’t get through.”

“I forgot my charger,” I said. “It died on the bus ride.” I quickly regretted lying, knowing that there was a phone charger in my bag, and I wouldn’t be able to stop him from riffling through to find it.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he said. He opened his arms and hugged me. His face nestled into my shoulder and he started to weep. “I’m sorry,” he said.

My body was tense. A week ago, he would have slit my throat for leaving for days without answering my phone. Carefully, I wrapped my arms around him. I couldn’t even smell the whiskey on him, as if this wasn’t just some drunken apology.

“I had a lot of time to think,” he said, keeping his face buried in my shoulder. “I don’t know what came over me. There’s no excuse. I betrayed you. You deserve better. You deserve to go out and find a better man. If that’s what you want, I won’t stop you.” His voice was strained. He was trying to hold himself together, but I could feel his tears soaking through my shirt.

I wanted to tell him it was okay, but a clenching at my gut wouldn’t let me. Apology or not, it wasn’t okay. But I couldn’t tell him that, either. Even though he was sober, I was still worried he would snap. A week is a long time to think, but it’s not enough time to change.

“If you give me another chance, Kyla, I promise I won’t let you down again. Things will be better. I got a job.” He finally released me and wiped the tears from his face. “I got a good job, working for my friend’s dad. It’s a renovation company. They do the higher end homes, across town. Starting pay is sixteen bucks an hour—that’s already two bucks more than I was making at the warehouse.”

He smiled for the first time since I walked in the door. His eyes were wide and bright, staring into mine. After a few seconds, they relaxed, and his brow lowered. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I’m happy for you, Liam, but…” The lump in my gut moved up to my throat. I wanted to tell him I was leaving, but the lump wouldn’t allow it. His face turned white, as if I didn’t need to say it.

“What?” he said weakly.

“I need some time to think,” I managed to say through the lump.

His shoulders sunk down as his heart broke into a million tiny pieces. His lips remained parted, totally taken aback. ‘But what about my new job?’ I could practically hear him saying. It just wasn’t enough. He hurt me. He hit me, bruised me, cut me. He screamed at me and threatened me. I wouldn’t have cared if he still had no job—if he’d lost the house and his truck and we were left with nothing. The damage was done.

“I know I hurt you, Kyla, but that’s behind me.”

I couldn’t look him in the eyes. He was too broken, too sad to look at. He used to be so strong, so understanding, so happy. I stared at the floor in silence. I was still afraid he would hit me any second.

“I understand,” he finally said, turning away. He already had a bag packed, sitting next to the refrigerator.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I’m going to stay with Tom. He told me I could crash on his couch for as long as I wanted. I wrote down his number. It’s on the kitchen table.” He kissed me on the forehead. “When you’ve made up your mind, call me and let me know, either way.” He started towards the door. Before he left, he turned to me and said, “And just so you know, people can change.”

He closed the door and I was alone.

I got a call from my boss the next day, asking me if I could come back into work. With my arm feeling better, and teetering on the verge of bankruptcy, I said sure. It was my first shift in weeks, but it was a welcomed distraction from my life.

At least it was for a few hours.

Halfway into my shift, around midnight, a familiar face came into the bar. A tall, middle-aged man. I recognized him right away, despite having only met him once, very briefly. It was Matthew Bremkin, the military lawyer. He hung up his coat on the back of a barstool and took a seat at the bar.

I pretended to be busy, checking in on each of the regulars, hoping they would order some drinks to delay having to face the lawyer.

I knew he was there to see me. His type never came around that bar—no one with more that a few bucks to their name ever came around that bar. The leather boots on Matthew’s feet were worth more than any of our regulars’ paycheques.

No one placed any orders. I couldn’t avoid him any longer.

“What can I get you?” I said, hopelessly pretending not to recognize him.

“Scotch, neat. And a smoke break,” he said.

“We don’t have scotch. We’ve got rye and we’ve got whiskey.”

“Then in that case, just the smoke break.” He didn’t bother waiting for a confirmation. He stood up and walked past the bathrooms, towards the backdoor.

I hesitated, but delaying did nothing but worsen my anxiety, let my mind wander and create a long list of possible reasons why he showed up at the bar and why he wanted to talk to me in private. I met him outside.

“I can only take five minutes,” I said to him.

“You’ll be fine.” He lit a cigarette and then offered one to me. When I didn’t take one, he said, “I insist,” so I took one.

He smiled. “A dog bit me today,” he said.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I hate dogs. Never liked them.”

“I’m sorry. Is this about Hunter and Greg? Or did you want to talk about dogs?”

“It is about Hunter and Greg,” he said, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “I’m sure you heard, they’re getting help. We’ve checked them into a PTSD rehabilitation facility—a really great one, in upstate Washington.”

“Is it true? Or did you just send them to another cabin?”

He laughed. “You need to relax. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I’m just curious to know what you know about Hunter and Greg.”

I’m not sure if it was the cigarette or his questionable assurance, but I was suddenly aware of the tension in my shoulders. I let my body relax. “I know a lot. I’ve known them most of my life, after all.”

“What do you know about their mission in the Congo?”

I thought. I didn’t know anything more than anyone else. But Matthew was staring at me expectedly, waiting for me to tell him everything, so I did. I told him that I knew it was some sort of peace-keeping mission, and that the rumour was that they were actually there to find some terrorist. I told him what I knew about the prison camp, and that was it.

“Hunter didn’t tell you anything else?”

“I don’t think he likes talking about it,” I said.

“The name Noric Gizenga doesn’t sound familiar?” It didn’t, so I shrugged and shook my head. “What about Frederick Meraux?” he continued. That name I knew—years ago, it was on the cover of every newspaper.

“He died in a roadside bomb, right? I remember the news.”

Matthew laughed and shook his head. Was I wrong? Was I mixing up his name with someone else’s? Regardless, I didn’t understand what any of it had to do with Hunter and Greg. That story was in the news when we were just barely out of high-school, for crying out loud. Matthew continued to laugh.

“What? Am I mistaken?” I asked.

He told me to take a seat on the little smoking bench, so I did. He gave me another cigarette.

“I should be getting back to work.”

“Don’t worry about that. This is important. That can wait,” he said. Then, he started telling me about Hunter’s mission, about how Lieutenant Meraux was also the terrorist, Noric Gizenga. Hunter, Greg, and Sammy were part of a taskforce sent to kill Meraux, an ex-Marine who never actually died in the roadside bomb that they said he died in.

When I asked Matthew why he was telling me everything, he just smiled and shrugged. “I figured Hunter already told you,” he said, but his smile was too sinister to believe. “In fact, I’m almost sure that he did tell you. He must have, no?”

“I told you everything he told me,” I said.

“Maybe you just weren’t paying attention when he told you.” Matthew lit another cigarette for himself, that devilish smile still lingering on his face. “They never got him, though. Meraux’s still out there.”

“Is that where Hunter is? You sent him back out to the Congo?” I asked.

He laughed again. “No, no. Like I said, Hunter was sent to the training facility in Georgia. He’s training recruits.”

My heart fluttered in my chest. A training facility in Georgia? He just told me Hunter went to a PTSD rehabilitation center in Washington. “Wait, what?” I said.

“Hmm?” Matthew said, tilting his head to the side and narrowing his eyes.

“You said they were being treated for PTSD.”

“Did I? Excuse me, that was my mistake.” He smiled.

My confusion was quickly turning to anger. Matthew was screwing with me, he was intentionally confusing me. But why?